


The Darkness (Find Me There)

by Trixen



Category: Outlander (TV) RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-21 19:18:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9562886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trixen/pseuds/Trixen
Summary: During the hiatus after season 1A of Outlander, photos of Sam in Los Angeles pop up online.5 months later, Caitriona and Sam meet.





	1. Chapter 1

 

_Oh let me see your beauty when the witnesses are gone_

_Let me feel you moving like they do in Babylon_

\- Leonard Cohen

  
_It is a wild night,_  hot dark and moonstones.

 

Caitriona stands on the balcony of the flat, resting the meat of her palms against the rail. The air is thick and in the distance, lightning shivers across the naked sky. Glasgow feels electric, as if poised on the lip of an avalanche; the snow and storm flickering at its back, ready to strike. The clouds are the colour of spilled oranges. All around her, the light of possibility - of something about to happen. 

 

Yesterday it had been cool and foggy, smelling of smoke and crushed flowers. Now, everything seems perfumed with heat and the promise of torrential rain. It is just like this city to have two faces.

 

Her bottle of Sancerre rests on the patio table. Steam puffs from it in gentle breaths, and rivulets of condensation pool beneath it like tears. She pours a glass almost to the brim and sips, the wine so icy it clutches her throat and makes her gasp. The coldest fire, the warmest night. Her eyes burn, just a little, and she is almost surprised by the loneliness that catches her unawares.

 

5 months.

 

Has she ever gone so long without talking to him?

 

What will he say when she sees him next week?

 

What will _she_ say?

 

"Dear Diary," Caitriona mocks herself, slumping onto one of the loungers with a huff. 

 

Maybe she _should_ keep a diary. But what could she write that she wouldn’t be terrified to put out into the world? _I’m furious with Sam, and I miss him so much that my heart actually hurts, and that sounds cliche and like I’m 17 but -- it does. It's pulsing, like a wound._

_Now I'm writing horrid poetry, Diary._

_But I’m angry, God I’m so furious, and I can’t explain why and it makes me even angrier and we’re probably in the same city right now —_

He is _here_. Somewhere.

 

Out there among the blowing winds and grasses and moors and towering buildings. In Scotland, but not banging on her door, asking her to go for a curry or grab a glass of wine. Not texting her eggplant emojis or pictures of himself on the crest of mountains or blue skies, so blue that they ache, just like her heart.

 

And it occurs to her suddenly that he’d have no idea where she is, anyhow. The flat is borrowed from an old mate. They’d met during her modelling days, when her teeth were a bit grotty and crooked, and she’d lived on champagne and the occasional cigarette. Zara was a _proper_ friend, couldn’t care less about Caitriona’s newfound fame. She’d lent her the flat on the proviso that Cait keep the plants from dying while she was in Egypt, and that she didn’t drink all of her wine.

 

So far Cait is keeping one promise handily.

 

She sips the reedy Sancerre and silently toasts to Zara, posing for photographs and sweating off her make-up, while Cait sits here, on her balcony, staring out into an unforgiving city and dreaming of an unforgiving man.

 

Her body flinches as her last words to him resound like bells or cleavers, getting down deep to bone and blood.

 

_You’re an embarrassment._

 

What would her diary say about that? _Less than tactful, Balfe. Also, you might want to knock that chip off your shoulder. Also, you’re a right bitch when you want to be. Oh and by the way dear, you’re talking to yourself again._

Desperate for something to do other than ruminate on the sad state of affairs that is her life, Cait picks up her phone and calls Karolina. 

 

“I was eating potatoes,” is how she answers.

 

“Aren’t you—“

“Fuck off I needed them.”

 

Cait giggles. “ _You_ were the one who said you were doing that no carb ridiculousness. What broke you?”

 

“Potatoes,” she replies in a ‘duh’ voice. “We have the kind of relationship where I could actually feel them talking to me.”

 

“You’re making me hungry.”

 

“Famous people aren’t allowed to eat, honey bun.”

 

“Ehh, Claire is a pretty sturdy sort. She’s meant to have an arse on her.”

 

“Speaking of Claire, aren’t you 'sposed to be boning some guy in a skirt right about now?”

 

Cait swallows more wine. “Few more days yet.”

 

“So what’s up then, you never call this early.”

 

“Nothing.”

 

“Oh I’m so sure,” Karo says. “Just tell me. I don’t have the energy to pry it out of you.”

 

“So bloody nosy.”

 

“What is it? Is Eddie okay?”

 

“Oh Ms Edwina is living the life,” Cait pauses and picks up the bottle and glass, cradling her phone against her shoulder as she opens the sliding glass door and makes her way through the bedroom into the kitchen. “It’s not that. I’m fine. I’m just— I’m a bit… nervous? About seeing Sam.”

 

“You did the guy a favour.”

 

“I was a little mean.”

 

“He needed to be told. No one wants to be a punchline.”

 

She flinches. "I was _a lot_ mean."

 

"Pssshh he can take it. What, you think he's still pissed with you?"

 

"I _know_ he is," Cait says tartly. "He hasn't spoken to me in almost half a year."

 

"Well what do you care, babe. Just... _act_. I mostly hate everyone I work with--"

 

"No you don't." Her throat hurts and she clears it, popping Karo on speaker. “Besides, I don’t… _hate_ him. We’re mates. Good ones, in fact.”

 

“Oh… you’re not… _did you_?”

 

“What."

 

“Are you seriously calling to tell me you have a crush because I might be a bit _verklempt_ right now if so."

 

Caitriona huffs noisily and begins to assemble things on the marble island. Fresh, plump garlic. Dark leaves of lacinato kale, Tuscan olive oil, thin noodles. She bangs around for dried chilies and the Parmesan she'd bought at the market; it smells strong, pungent, like sour and sweet and salt. She decides this night is now a bit much of muchness for wine, and makes herself an icy vodka tonic, heavy on the vodka.

 

“Helllllooooooo,” Karo sings into the phone.

 

“I’m ignoring you.”

 

“And why’s that, Queen B?”

 

“I. do. not. have. a. crush.” With every piece of punctuation, Caitriona whacks the garlic with the back of a knife, crushing it and releasing the stinging scent into the air. She peels off the skins carefully. 

 

“What does Eddie think?”

 

Cait can’t help but laugh. “Should’ve never told you that.”

 

“I think using your cat as a therapist is a fab idea. Maybe if I did that I wouldn’t be talking to these potatoes right about now.”

 

She puts a pot of salted water on the hob and fills a measuring cup with golden oil. “Eddie thinks her mama needs to get a grip.”

 

“Preferably on a dick, no?”

 

“I _don’t_ like him.”

 

“Who said anything about Sam?”

 

“No one,” Cait says hurriedly. “I’m just— I’m just… I feel guilty. I was horrendous, and I’ve waited too long to apologize _and_ I’m still a bit hacked off with him to be honest.”

 

Karo yawns. “Not sure why you give a fuck anyway, he’s a grown man. Let him fall on those blonde swords if he feels the need.”

 

“His image affects mine. Publicly.”

 

“What a dipshit thing to say.”

 

“I know,” Cait replies, chastened. “But I _have_ to think about those things now. My image or what people are saying. This is my first proper acting job. I don’t want to fuck it up. I don’t want either of us to—and…”

 

“I get it babe, being a serious actor myself--" she ignores Cait's snort, "but what I want to focus on right now is the tiny detail of how you liiiike him.”

 

“I'm hanging up, you complete shit.”

 

“Okay,” Karo says, unfazed. “Call me tomorrow.”

 

“Argh.”

 

“Love you too.”

 

"I didn't-" Cait starts, but her friend has already hung up, and she has to resist the urge to toss her mobile across the room and out the picture window. 

 

_Dear Diary, I *don't*,_ she thinks, ignoring the heavy feeling in her belly. Like the insistence of water pressing down, or the vibration of a train arrowing through a tunnel. _I don't, I don't, I don't._

 

The garlic spits and hisses in the hot oil and the sound reminds her of wood on a fire, the way it thrashes and collapses in on itself, dying birds of flame. She thinks back to that night, when he called her, the way the ring of the phone she now holds in her hand sliced the frozen evening in two.

 

She and Eddie were at the Pierre in Manhattan, curled up on a divan, both drowsy and listening to the rain outside. Caitriona was in New York City for meetings and drinks with friends. But that night it was quiet, and colder than usual and she'd felt like nothing more than staying put with her purring baby and the glow of her Kindle.

 

In her suite, the fireplace was swollen with spitting, raging logs, and she'd ordered room service. _Nasi goreng_ and a vinegary side of slaw that was bright with purplish cabbage and the palest strips of jicama. 

 

She can remember how the wine was heavy in her mouth, ripe and raw with hints of the sun warmed vines. She can remember how she picked up the phone - against her own better judgment - and that her voice was as crisp as she could make it.

 

It still trembled. "Yes?"

 

Sam sounded a bit blurry. "Baaaaalfe."

 

"Hello."

 

"What're you up to?"

 

She shifted, cradling Eddie as she reached for her glass. "A bit busy actually--"

 

"But we haven't chatted in ages," he said. "I miss ye awfully."

 

Something cracked a bit in her heart; like a river would after a long, long winter. She steeled herself, because she'd been furious for too long without any outlet, and it burned within her; the need for release.

 

"Do you? You've been quite the ladies man since arriving in California."

 

He chuckled. "LA is a bit... wild, ye see..."

 

"Oh I saw," she replied. "So did everyone else."

 

"What're ye on about?"

 

"I'm _on_ about how it's all over the bloody Internet."

 

"Wait, are ye cross with me or--"

 

 "Yes."

 

"Why?" 

 

"Every time I open Twitter, all I see is-- _you..._ cavorting, for lack of a better term."

 

"Wait just a wee second, Caitriona," he interrupted, no longer sounding quite so befuddled with drink. "Last I checked, ye weren't my mum, so I don't see how this is any of your concern."

 

"In case _you've_ forgotten, it is my business. We're linked professionally. Everything you do reflects onto the show and by extension, on me. When you end up in the gossip rags, it isn't just _you_ they bloody well laugh at--"

 

"You're overreacting."

 

She sucked in a hot breath. "No, _you_ are acting like a complete arsehole fool."

 

"Christ, Cait. What the fuck is yer problem?"

 

"Having my name associated with whichever tart you happen to have sitting on your dick that particular evening."

 

"It's. None. Of. Your. Business." His voice was low and dark and furious. "Unless there's another reason you're in such a strop?"

 

A twist, down low. "Like...?"

 

"Why don't ye tell me, seeing as ye have so many opinions."

 

"I already told you how I feel."

 

"To think I called ye to catch up..."

 

"Can't I just check TMZ to hear your news?" She regretted it as soon as she said it. Foolish, cruel, and the silence stretched between them, thin and smoldering. "I didn't--"

 

"What?" he growled. "Ye didn't mean to be so... what?"

 

"It's just--" she paused and snared her lip with her teeth. "What do you want me to say? You must know what-- what you look like."

 

"And what do I look like, Caitriona?"

 

"An embarrassment."

 

He hung up on her.

 

Which, Cait thinks now, she deserved. 

 

But it still took a moment. She remembers how she stared at the phone. It wasn't like you could slam down a mobile. All she heard were the three soft thumps of disconnection, and though she knew what she'd said, she still thought he might call back. But he didn't. And so she and Eddie had sat in front of the fire, staring into space, and she'd wondered why she let her anger take over. 

 

Why she was so worried about him.

 

"I still am," Cait whispers down to the pan, where her noodles are bathed in ribbons of kale and garlic and chilies. The dish smells intoxicating and she's ravenous, hungry with the memories, nerve-wracked over their impending meeting. On the set, where she can't hide, where she'll have to pretend to be in love with him, stare into his eyes and _mean_ every word. 

 

The idea makes her almost nauseated in a way she can't articulate. 

 

As does what she used to think - daydream about really - during those long days of filming. 

 

_No, Balfe. Stop that line of thinking right this second._

 

She drinks the rest of her vodka tonic in one swallow. It burns her throat pleasantly, and she coughs, rummaging through the fridge for the lemons. 

 

"Bollocks to this," she mutters, not seeing even a hint of yellow or anything resembling it. The spaghetti can rest for a few moments without spoiling, but only a few. Anything more and it will be reduced to her current mood: defeated and faintly soggy. 

 

As she finds her purse, getting ready to pop to the shop down the road, she thinks about the one thing she doesn't want to think about.

 

The one thing she has been trying to excise for months.

 

The _why_ of it all.

 

Why she cares.

 

Why he took her on that walk. Why they found that monument stone thing and posed in front of it, laughing at her heels, at their lives, at how they'd stumbled into this brilliant other world. Like Alice poking her toe through the looking glass, shocked as the mirror puddled around her foot, inviting her through its silver mouth.

 

Except _their_ wonderland hadn't turned out to be a topsy-turvy world full of famished teeth and mad hatters. Instead it was like their own little earth. Scotland. Sword fighting. Hiking grassy hills. Laughing themselves sick. Huddling against the fiercest winds, stealing places next to roaring fires, investigating every pub in every village.

 

And she'd thought... what? Daydreamed... _what?_

 

That something had been building? That a construction had begun between them, and they were each laying bits of stone and glue - readying a fortress.  

 

Or had she been thinking of a verse she'd read once in a battered anthology of American poets? Reginald Shepherd. _You, Therefore_. 

 

Outside, the sky is stained with the purples and oranges of storm clouds. The air sizzles with anticipation and the poem echoes through her mind, banging like boats against a harbour. 

 

Cait whispers the words as she walks.

 

"and you fall from the sky  
with several flowers, words spill from your mouth  
in waves, your lips taste like the sea, salt-sweet (trees  
and seas have flown away, I call it  
loving you): home is nowhere, therefore you," 

  
and it's there that her voice cracks a bit, aching down its centre, unable to continue. 

 

_Home is nowhere, therefore you._

Two nomads, two adventurers. Without homes. Hurtling around, jostling, bruising, never sure, never quite getting it right - until. Until she'd stepped through the door of the audition room, like Alice, leaping into a darkness she could not quite fathom.

 

And he had been there.

 

The first lightning breaks across the sky as Caitriona remembers the belly-deep feeling of that moment; the breadth of his shoulders, the way his back moved beneath his t-shirt, his arm coming up so he could scratch his neck. And she'd seen a hint of the hair at his armpit - dark blond, a bit damp with sweat. He'd smelled like the whisky they were sipping (a bit of an affectation she'd thought, until she realized they were all lushes thank Christ) and woodsmoke and sandalwood, and he was kind and funny and nervous and stumbled a bit over his words, and how was she to know?

 

That home was nowhere.

 

Until him.

 

Tears sting the back of her throat. The _physicality_ of it all. How the bits of her shoulder and elbow and hip miss the bits of his shoulder and elbow and hip. How sometimes he tugs her close without realizing he's doing it, his palms pressing into the indents of her waist, where she is tender and a bit bony. His thumbs press into her ribs. His ( _Jamie's Jamie's Jamie'_ s) kiss leaves her mouth tasting of mint and cloves and the salt of his sweat, as sharp and as stinging as sex.

 

Distant thunder echoes like church bells, and Cait is one car length away from the shop when she glances opposite, toward a raucous crowd spilling from the depths of a pub. She smiles at their revelry, a reflex really, until-- burnt red curls, and that laugh she'd know anywhere. 

 

She sees it in glimpses. His arm around a small blonde. Her breasts brushing his chest. His mouth open, the flash of his teeth in the gloam of the evening. His voice, carrying across the road and reaching her ears. Caitriona can't stop staring, and she realizes how daft she looks, stilled on the street like a waxwork, but --

 

He looks down at the blonde and his lips curve. It's the sight of _that_ \- affection - for someone else. It makes her turn around and begin to rush, because this is simply too bloody much. She'll see him on set, after two coffees and a good dose of make-up. She'll _not_ see him while he's on a date for Christ's sake. 

 

Cait isn't sure she's ever booked it quite like she is now. Her idea of exercise is some sort of Pilates or yoga class. Running around in a soaked-with-sweat-gasping-for-breath haze has never been her cup of tea. But needs must, and she's hustling around the corner, just about at the flat -

 

"Caitriona."

 

It sounds like he's right behind her, but when she spins, he's at least six feet away. 

 

"Sam," she says, trying to appear calm and cool and effortless. Instead, she's fairly sure she's the shade of an aubergine that's been roasted in a hot oven. "How are you?"

 

He looks bemused. "Were you-- were ye running away from me?"

 

"No," she laughs. "I didn't even see you. I-- I was in a hurry because of dinner."

 

"Because of... dinner." He pauses. "I dinna ken a time I've seen ye move that quickly but--"

 

"You don't know everything about me."

 

Sam scrubs his hand over his face and rubs his chin briefly. "Aye, that's true enough. Look--"

 

"I have to go."

 

"Don't avoid me, Caitriona."

 

"I'm not. I just-- my spaghetti is--"

 

"We need to talk. Before we get back to work."

 

"Aren't you on a date?"

 

He quirks a brow. "How do ye know that?"

 

_Fuuuuuck._ "Okay, I saw you."

 

"I ken that. And whether or not I am on a date, we still need to work things out before we're around other people."

 

"I don't think there's anything to talk about."

 

"Oh, aye?" he chuckles, but it's not a nice sound, and she winces. "Ye might be alone in that belief, Caitriona. Are ye staying here?"

 

She wilts a bit, her face flaming, blushing, furious -- and even worse -- resplendent to see him, hear his voice, after so many long, cold months. "Yes."

 

Sam nods toward the door of the flat, his voice low, burning with something she cannot see -- the fire inside.

 

"Shall we, then?"

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

_Sam._

 

 

As she walks up the stairs in front of him, he watches her. It's always astonished him, how ... _tall_ she is. Ridiculous, he full well knows, but he's always towered over everyone, and then she sort of-- _waltzed_ into the audition room and he felt gobsmacked.

 

He can still recall to this day how he stared at her, his body electrified by the very fact of her presence.

 

God, what a sentimental git he'd been in those days.

 

Now he knows better.

 

But the knowledge of it, of her grace and the length of her, the long bones and the skinny fingers and the swan neck, it's always there, just beneath the surface of his skin. No matter how much he hates it, it remains, like an albatross arrowing over the sky above his head, reminding him of his own weakness.

 

She unlocks the door to the flat without a word and disappears into what he assumes is her bedroom, though as he looks around, he can't help but think that this definitely isn't Cait's home. He wishes he wasn't so sure, but he just _knows_. The walls aren't cluttered with obscure pieces of art, and there aren't velvety throws over the couch or books tottering in piles around every corner. 

 

So, whose flat is this?

 

"The million pound question," he mutters to himself, annoyed that he even bloody cares. 

 

Sam ventures further in, smelling something spicy and delicious. He's a bit fuzzy with drink, and pulls out his phone to text Shazza and the rest of his mates. _Something came up, call ya tomorrow. xx._ Short, sweet, light on the details. He makes a proper fuss of Eddie when she curls onto her back and bats her eyelashes at him, though he's pretty certain she just wants him to sit down so she can rip his t-shirt to shreds as is her habit.

 

"The spaghetti is ruined."

 

He straightens up and turns to face Cait. She's changed from leggings into a long grey skirt, and her t-shirt is almost thin enough to see through if he looks hard enough. He doesn't. 

 

"The spaghetti is ruined. My dinner is ruined. It's soggy."

 

Sam shrugs. "Is that my fault?"

 

"You -- you stopped me on the street. I was rushing back to save it."

 

"It's food, not a drowning child."

 

She just stares at him for a moment. "Well, I'm hungry, and now I'm pissed off, so can we make this quick--"

 

"We can just order a curry."

 

"I don't want ..." she breathes out and stalks back into the kitchen. "Vodka tonic?"

 

"Aye, go on then." Sam feels pleased with himself in a way he hasn't for a while. Since LA, actually, which is more than he wants to dwell on at the moment. "Shall I order?"

 

"Bengal Lancer," she says, without looking up from mixing the drinks. "I'll have--"

 

"Chickpeas with Tikka Masala sauce and a garlic naan," he says, and their eyes meet. Lock. "I remember some things, y'know."

 

Cait ducks her head and squeezes the lime until he can see the juice shining her knuckles. 

 

They don't say anything more until he orders (King Prawn Balti with rice and chips, plus poppadoms because why the fuck not) and they sit down with their drinks, the only sounds the fizzing of the tonic and crackling ice cubes. Outside, lightning continues to river fire over the horizon, and the air feels tight, hot, stretched to its breaking point.

 

He begins with the only question on his mind. "Whose flat is this?"

 

"My friend's."

 

"Who is?"

 

"Zara," she says flatly. "You don't know her."

 

Something in him relaxes, and he slings his arm around the back of the couch. "Can I ask ye a question?"

 

"Can I stop you?"

 

He smiles. "Why is it that ye feel you have the right to judge me?"

 

Her teeth snare her lower lip. "I didn't... I didn't _judge_ you. That's not fair."

 

"Aye, I think it is. What _wasn't_ fair was calling my best mate and having her be a right bitch over my private life."

 

"Don't you get that what you do affects me too? Do you think I want to live in a goldfish bowl? But we do and--"

 

"It's all a choice, Caitriona."

 

She flinches. "What do you mean?"

 

"I mean that ye get to decide how ye react to things. I'm not going to let this change me. I've wanted it for too long to let it-- ruin things, rather than make them even better."

 

The cocktail is tart and limey, stinging his teeth pleasantly. He sips it and regards her, how her face is flushed, so pretty that it's distracting, and he wants so badly not to notice but... well. So he swallows the drink she made him and thinks about the juice still left on her hands. How what is in his mouth, between his teeth, on his tongue - she's touched. 

 

"That's just-- that's too simplistic for me. Privacy is _vital_ \-- and I don't think you realize how much we're torn apart and dissected." She pauses and strokes Eddie with one hand, the gesture both absentminded and fond. "It was as if a bloody bomb went off on Twitter and it just kept exploding."

 

"I dinna know why ye care about that shit," he bites off, trying to ignore the glaring fact that _he_ cares very much as well. "They don't know us."

 

"Oh Christ, who cares if they do or not? It doesn't matter. It's all perception."

 

"And the perception is that I'm a fool, I take it?"

 

Cait blushes further, until he can almost feel the heat. Thunder breaks outside, and amazingly, Eddie yawns but doesn't stir from the couch. Or not so amazing, Sam thinks, for never has he encountered such a bone-idle animal in all his life. 

 

"Well, isn't it?" He smirks. "Don't be shy now, Caitriona."

 

"Yes."

 

"Do ye think I--"

 

"Yes."

 

"Wait, you didn't know what I was going to say."

 

"Yes I did. You were going to ask whether I think you care. And I do." She downs her drink. "Another?"

 

He feels very much like a toddler and would love nothing more than to throw a wee tantrum, but he has a feeling that would just confirm everything she's thinking. 

 

God, to know what she's thinking. 

 

He would climb inside her mind if he could. Those gloriously mysterious cells that make up the essence of Caitriona. Sometimes he imagines it like a castle. When he was a child, he'd wanted to be King Arthur with his knights and battle-scarred armour, and now he thinks he'd need every army at his disposal to scale her walls. To _know_ what is around every corner. Shine lights in the dark passageways, discover what makes her weep, or dream, or orgasm. 

 

Sam looks up, feeling her eyes on him. "What?"

 

"I asked if you wanted another drink."

 

"Ye don't have to ask in future. Keep them coming."

 

She laughs; a welcome moment of levity. And he can't help himself, he grins back. Because, well, it's _her_.

 

~

 

After they demolish the curry, the flat smells delicious, like garlic and tomatoes and yeasty, peppery bread. Cait drags sweet mango gelato from the freezer and blends it with the vodka.

 

"Grown up dessert," she says, handing him a frosted glass. 

 

It tastes almost unbearably good - sweet cream and some sort of spice, and he thinks of lush tropics, of a long, white beach, of skin glistening with oil. Trees swollen with fruit. Cait's brought the bar to the coffee table, and sits cross-legged on the plushly carpeted floor, her skirt revealing the fine bones of her ankles and black toenail polish.

 

He feels replete, yet predatory in a way he can't define, watching as she drinks, swiping at the sides of her mouth with her pink tongue.

 

The hot sky finally opened some time ago, and rain pelts the windows with a lashing insistence that reminds Sam of a painting he saw once in a museum. A prehistoric forest, wild and removed from man, a tsunami of rain and wet, with green and purple clouds and cawing birds in the trees. Another earth, not quite this one. It had fascinated him. 

 

The ability of the world to turn on its inhabitants. 

 

Without shame or thought or anything other than the unbridled desire to _storm_.

 

He can relate to that more than he'd like to admit. Gazing lazily at Caitriona, he holds out his glass. "More vodka."

 

"Are you my squatter now? How long are you planning on staying?" she asks as she tops him up.

 

"This isn't even your flat, Balfe."

 

"It is for the interim," she says primly. "Until I figure out what's happening."

 

"Not living in a bloody trailer is what's happening. I'm getting a proper place."

 

"The next block is all on location."

 

"Don't tell me that thanks."

 

"And besides, we have no idea if it'll even get renewed or what."

 

"It will," he says and snorts with laughter. "Nothing else on Starz worth watching."

 

"You like that pirate nonsense I thought?"

 

"Doesna compare," Sam says. "It's not got our fanbase."

 

"You sound like a prat when you talk like that."

 

"Takes one to know one, Balfe."

 

She giggles, but the sound vanishes as quickly as it appeared. "Sam-- I wanted to say that-- I'm sorry."

 

"Love means never having to say you're sorry."

 

"Would you stop bring a prick for one moment?"

 

"That's not very apologetic, now is it."

 

She raises her left eyebrow. "I'm trying to ... look, I was out of order. Okay? I was. It wasn't my business and still isn't. I hope that you're very happy with--"

 

"Hold on a minute," he interrupts her and sits up straight. "Ye think I'm ... _dating_ her?"

 

"Well, what were you doing then?"

 

He flushes. "Erm..."

 

"I don't want to hear about it, either way."

 

"Oh, aye?"

 

" _Aye_ ," she says sharply. Her hair tumbles around her shoulders, a mess of curlicues and dark waves. 

 

"Why? We're mates, aren't we?"

 

She busies herself making another drink. "That's beside the point."

 

"It's the entire point. There is no other point."

 

Cait gives him an old fashioned look. "It's private."

 

"According to you, TMZ knows everything, so why shouldn't you as well?"

 

"I already said I'm sorry--"

 

"What I want to know, truly, is why ye were so angry."

 

"I already--"

 

"No. Ye didn't really." He pauses, and stares into her eyes. Ignores the clanging of his heart, how he can feel it in his chest, bloody and foolish and still so damn raw. "Tell me why, Cait."

 

"You seem to have your own ideas," she says, and her voice trembles. Just a bit, but he hears it.

 

Of course he _does_ have his own ideas, but he'd rather cut his own bollocks off than tell her. For a moment, he just listens to the rain, and thinks again of that forest, before time, before measurement, lost in its own wildness, lost in its trees and animals and mud and the smell of bark, of herbs, of an earth that seeks nothing but its own existence.

 

And Christ, he'd give anything to be like that, but instead he wants and wants and wants, and he's never sure what would be enough.

 

What could she say or do that would still his heart's frantic beat or the throbbing of his cock. His stomach hurts with it.

 

"I'm not answering this for you, Caitriona."

 

"I don't know why."

 

"That's quite a lie."

 

She gets up and almost stumbles, catching herself on the table. "It's just-- it was so... _public._ "

 

He follows her. "That's not why."

 

"It was embarrassing because we act together and--"

 

"That's not why either."

 

She whirls around. "What do you fucking want me to say? You need me to stroke your ego? Tell you I'm jealous or something like that? Tell you that watching you with other women is like torture because all I want is--"

 

He catches her above her elbows, gripping her lightly. Pushes her back gently, softly. And his body vibrates with the need to be rougher, more forceful. "What _do_ ye want? Tell me."

 

Cait stares up at him, eyes salty. "I can't..."

 

“Aye," he breathes out, leaning down, whispering the word over her lips. He can almost taste them, taste her. He thinks he can smell her. And the stab of desire is so fierce that he has to bite back a groan. "You can. Tell me what ye want from me."

 

"I..." 

 

Sam slides his hands down, laces her fingers with his. Draws her arms above her head so that she's pinned in place there, against the wall. Outside, lightning and driving rain, and inside, the two of them, their breaths harsh and fevered. She shakes against him, her mouth wet, her nipples hard against the fabric of her top and he wonders - did she wear that so he'd see?

 

Did she wear it to answer the question he's been asking?

 

His tongue drags against her lower lip and she gasps. His smile is slow. “Were ye jealous?”

 

“No— I—“

 

“Don’t lie to me.”

 

She wriggles a bit and glares at him. “ _Yes_ , okay. Yes. I was.”

 

He feels her words like he would her touch on his cock. “Why, Caitriona?”

 

“You know why.”

 

“I want ye to tell me.”

 

“Because—“ she pauses and stares up at him, defiant and so beautiful that he aches with it. “Because — I looked at those photos and it was all wrong. It’s— it’s _us_ who should be—“

 

“Fucking?”

 

Her hips jut forward a bit and she shudders. “God, yes.”

 

“Do ye want me to fuck you?”

 

“ _Yes_.”

 

The rush of satisfaction is so primal that it’s all he can do not to shove up her skirt and drive into her right then. He knows she’s wet enough; he can smell her and it’s sending him insane. He presses her palms with his own, forcing her straighter against the wall, forcing her to meet his body, but just barely. Just enough to tease.

 

She whimpers. “Sam, please— I— can’t take this—“

 

“But ye think you can take me?”

 

Cait’s eyes blaze. “How much do you want?”

 

“I want everything.”

 

“So do I."

 

"Should I tell ye about it?"

 

Her nod is brief, messy, and he can see that she's on the brink, about to shatter, about to _take_. His voice is low, rough.

 

"I want to _wreck_ you," he murmurs, and finally presses himself against her, so that she'll feel everything. The hard pulse of his dick, so impossibly hot that he feels it might burn her, and she keens under her breath, her palms trembling against his, above their heads. Sam remembers the forest and hears the thunder roar beyond the windows. "Caitriona, I am going to fuck you blind."

 

And then, as if in response, everything - the room, the world, the sky - goes dark. 


	3. Chapter 3

_Caitriona._

 

For a moment, it's as if she's been grabbed by her feet, up-ended, and shaken into the blackest night.

 

 Caitriona sees stars pop behind her eyelids, pinwheeling through the ink of her veins and exploding like fireworks. She jolts with the sudden rush of adrenaline and struggles a bit against Sam's restraining hands. It only serves to push her hips further into the heat of his cock, and she trembles anew, with the hurting ardency of desire.

 

So long denied.

 

He breathes out and chuckles quietly. "Wee power outage?"

 

"I hope so." She pauses and begins to see shapes, outlines. The blaze of his hair. His quirked eyebrow. His lips, wet. Saliva rushes into her mouth and she swallows carefully, tasting salt, her own want. She wonders if he'll taste of mango ice cream, of spice, of stinging vodka. "Do you want to light candles?"

 

"I'd rather kiss you, if I'm honest."

 

"Always better not to lie," she agrees gravely.

 

He laughs again, rumbling up from his belly. He draws her arms down and links them behind her back, holding her in place with her breasts pressing against his chest. Little streaks of lighting branch from her nipples down to her legs and she shakes again, unable to stop.  

 

"Why the trembles, babe?"

 

Caitriona blushes, glad suddenly that he can't see her. "I just--"

 

"Yeah," he murmurs. "I know."

 

And then his mouth covers hers, sure and sweet and full, and he _does_ taste of everything she imagined, and more. The mysteries of his lips are long past, but she's never truly kissed _Sam_ before, and the knowledge startles her, making her keen low in her throat. He mutters something in sympathy, gathering her up close, letting go of her hands. She gasps with the blood rush, winding her arms around his neck. She loves the hair at his nape, how it's softer there, curled with damp.

 

Now she can touch it as Caitriona, and she does, tangling it around her fingers, tugging him in.

 

His palms cover her lower back, so large they can almost span her waist and meet each other. But he's onto other things, moving down to the curve of her ass, cupping her there and spreading a bit, just a hint of his impatience. And that rawness, it disassembles her, making her push herself against him with a hunger she barely recognizes as coming from herself. 

 

Sam takes one of her hands from behind his neck and brings it to his mouth. For a moment, she's not sure what he's doing, and then he begins to lick. Slow, slow swipes of his tongue, around her knuckles, the tips of her fingers. He growls deep in his throat and sucks the flesh of her palm between his lips. She wonders if he'll leave a mark, hopes he will. The feel of his teeth, of him sucking her, it grabs her belly, between her legs, and she moans out loud.

 

"Been wanting to do that since ye made the drinks," he says, his accent thick with arousal. "I could see the lime on your hands."

 

"You knob, what an odd--"

 

She's cut off by another kiss. It's gentler, assessing, as if he's taking the measure of her. He's also laughing at her insult, and she's laughing too, and they kiss like this, twined together, learning each other as lovers and not just friends, though -- were they ever? 

 

Maybe not.

 

"You're callin' me a knob, hmm?" he whispers against her mouth. "Takes one to know one, Balfe."

 

"Oi!" she bites his lip. "Watch it."

 

She realizes suddenly what she's feeling. 

 

_Relief._

Oh, the sweet relief of finally, finally telling him. 

 

Of him telling her.

 

She thinks it has been boiling away beneath their still waters for much too long. 

 

It's why she can't stop giggling. Little aftershocks, and he starts to tickle her sides, sensing that she won't be able to take it, and she's exploding, kicking him and shrieking with laughter. 

 

"Stooppp gaahhh," she yells, beating him with her fists.

 

"Fuck Balfe your right hook," he groans in surprise and pulls her back with him over the back of the couch.

 

They land in a tangle, narrowly missing a slumbering Eddie, who was clearly enjoying the darkness and relative quiet. In her annoyance, she makes a sound not unlike the screech of an owl, and both Sam and Caitriona quake with further giggles, both incapable of speech for a few moments. She just enjoys the feel of him beneath her, his vibrations, the jut of his softening (but still quite impressive) erection, the iron band of his arms around her back. 

 

_Sam._ And the poem echoes through her, reverberating like a door slammed closed and open again. 

_I call it_

_loving you): home is nowhere, therefore you_

 

"You child," she murmurs.

 

"You started it," he says. "And here I was pulling out my best moves."

 

"I must have missed those..." she muses and jumps when he pinches her bum in reply.

 

"Ye were probably right, I 'spose. Candles would be a good idea."

 

"If I knew where Zara keeps them."

 

"D'ye have the flashlight app on your phone?"

 

Caitriona rolls her eyes and then remembers he can't see her. "Why would I."

 

"For situations exactly like this one, babe." 

 

"Well, do _you?"_

He's surprised. "'Course." He fumbles by the couch. "It's somewhere 'round here..."

 

She climbs off of him with some regret, and almost stubs her toe on the coffee table. "It's over here actually."

 

The iPhone casts an otherworldly glow over the planes of his face, and Cait feels suddenly and absurdly shy. She dips her head and curls up by the ottoman, grateful that the flat is warm and dry from the storm still raging outside. She is cozy and well kissed; her lips feeling bruised from the force of his mouth. 

 

A thin, white light comes from Sam's phone, and he crows. "Success! And ye mocked me for having it."

 

"Who says I'm not still?"

 

As he begins to root around for candles, he whistles, and it's a familiar sound. On set, he'll carry any tune (without success), and he often hums, or plays the air guitar, or beats imaginary drums. It's endearing and silly, and she wonders when she became such a bloody sap.

 

_When he cleaved you open with that kiss,_ she thinks, watching him. _When you met him and he stumbled over his words. When he invited you into his trailer to watch Netflix and didn't even make a move. When you watched him talk to his mother and saw his eyes brighten, just from that. Just from love._

"We've changed things," she says, without thinking.

 

He is placing candles on the table without much care, and looks up quickly. "What?"

 

"I just mean... we can't go back."

 

"Do ye want to?"

 

He lights the first wick, studiously avoiding her gaze. It's as if he's frightened by the possibility of her answer, and Caitriona's heart cracks again, just slightly; a riverbed in a desert, an ice sheet, fragile things. 

 

"Ugh, it's so embarrassing talking about this with you."

 

Sam smiles. "Cos we're mates, ye mean?"

 

"Yes, obviously."

 

"Well do ye want to go back or not?"

 

"No," she sighs and tilts her head. "Though I would quite like to know if you were on a date tonight."

 

"I wasn't. Just with a group. That was Shazza - we went to uni together."

 

"She looked a bit... taken with you."

 

A small smirk plays on the corners of Sam's mouth. "I shouldn't think so, she'd be more into you, actually."

 

"Oh." Cait pauses and grins. "My jealousy is showing, isn't it?"

 

"I like it," he says, finishing up with the candles and settling down across from her with his back against the couch.

 

The room is a glittering sea of shadows, as if lit by thousands of stars. It's intoxicating, and she nods to the bottles. "Make me a drink, Heughan?"

 

"Sorted."

 

He mixes them both tumblers of vodka, tonic and sharp lime, and they toast - to nothing, to everything, to black-outs, to vacation days. They're both a bit giddy and she tries not to snort when he makes one of his typical ribald jokes. 

 

"Ye love it," he laughs when she covers her face.

 

"That was utterly disgusting you pig," she says, between uncontrollable fits of giggles.

 

"But yet, she laughs."

 

"I can't help it," Cait says. "This is too much."

 

"It is, a bit. We went from being at each other's throats to snogging in an obscene amount of time."

 

"And you look much too pleased by that fact.”

 

“I am, to be honest. Won’t deny it.”

 

“Always wanted to shag a supermodel, eh?”

 

He smirks. “Who says I haven’t?”

 

“Me.”

 

“Right, well, you may be onto something there.”

 

She raises her eyebrows. “So, never?”

 

“Not yet.”

 

“Pretty sure of yourself, Heughan."

 

"Always knew I could get into your knickers if I played my cards right."

 

"I _will_ thump you."

 

"No ye won't," he bats his eyelashes at her. 

 

"No, I won't," she agrees. "Partly because I don't have the energy and I may be a bit sloshed so..."

 

"Fair."

 

She gazes out the window, at the rivulets of rain made silver by the candlelight. "D'you know someone asked me in the chat the other day if I remembered my past lives."

 

"Quite the conversation starter, Balfe."

 

"Sorry but I just remembered."

 

"Go on. Did ye tell them to put down the spliff?"

 

"I was intrigued. Better than being asked if I like the costumes."

 

"Quite like that one."

 

"Or if I'm pregnant."

 

"Quite like that one."

 

She smirks. "What does a Scotsman wear beneath his kilt, Sam?"

 

"Bollocks and a prayer." He pauses. "So, did ye detail your past life as a concubine in a Sultan's harem or --"

 

"That sounds suspiciously like something you've thought about before."

 

"Ye wouldn't want to know what goes through men's minds, Cait."

 

"I didn't have an answer. Pathetic. But maybe I'd have been a museum curator."

 

"Or a concubine in--"

 

"Or a Princess."

 

"Or a co--"

 

"Perhaps you should stop reading romance novels," she says sweetly. "They're warping that minuscule brain of yours."

 

"Haters gonna hate."

 

"You're quite late with that phrase."

 

"Are ye calling me uncool, Balfe?"

 

"No, I'm calling you a gigantic dork. There's a difference."

 

"Is there?"

 

"One is only a little bit sad. The other is just tragic."

 

He cocks his head. "And I'm..."

 

"Just tragic."

 

"I see. Not fit to be in your presence, no doubt."

 

She nods. "Completely _un_ fit."

His voice is light, but she sees the shift in his eyes. "An embarrassment, maybe?"

 

Caitriona feels those words like a gut punch, and she reels for a moment. The tipsiness shedding, the stars like fire, and her stomach -- filled with hot stones and regret.  

 

"Sam... you know, I still feel very guilty."

 

"About..."

 

He's not going to make this easy, that's plain. She knows she deserves it, but oh, why do they both have to be so bloody stubborn?

 

"I shouldn't have been such a bitch to you." Cait can't look at him and settles for staring down into the bubbles breaking at the rim of her glass. The candles smell of burning wood and cedar, and his silence is as loud as the pulsing of her heart. "When you called me... I was... well, you know I was jealous. And I felt stupid for it? So then I was furious, and--"

 

"I called ye again after that."

 

She's startled and her eyes fly up to his. "When? I didn't have any missed calls."

 

"I did. Not sure why you wouldn't have seen it, but--" he swallows and stretches out his legs. Their feet almost touch at the toes. "I realized what a fucking balls-up I was making of everything. It was... Los Angeles really got into my head. I felt like-- well, what ye said, about the privacy? And how you needed to keep some things just for yourself? I didn't get that. Not at first. I thought it was all under my control and I acted like a twat with a girlfriend for the first time."

 

"But the girlfriend was fame?" she guesses, her voice soft, unobtrusive. She doesn't want to startle him into hiding. It's as if he's opening a door she'd thought long closed.

 

"Well, yeah, bit of a stupid analogy but..." he pauses and the ghost of that half smile appears. "But it's all I've got. I got much too drunk with people I didn't really trust -- and _still_ don't trust, and I finally found out what a 'fame whore' is?"

 

"She Who Shall Remain Nameless," Cait deadpans.

 

Sam chuckles ruefully. "Christ, what a disaster. Can I... can I tell ye something extremely humiliating?"

 

"Always."

 

"That ye can't share with anyone else?"

 

" _Sam_."

 

"I'm just making sure."

 

"You should trust me by now."

 

"I think-- sometimes, I think you're the only person I trust, Cait."

 

Her chest throbs, and she bows her head to hide the hot tears at the back of her mouth. "Besides your mum, you mean."

 

"Obviously, come on, babe." He pauses and clears his throat. "Okay so this is just-- look, the reason I... well, did what I did with... _her_ and why I let that pool video go on Twitter is because..."

 

"Spit it out, Heughan."

 

"BecauseIWantedToMakeYouJealous," he rushes out, taking a long drink. 

 

"You what?"

 

"I wanted to make ye jealous, okay?" 

 

Caitriona stares at him. His face is flushed, even in the dim light. His hand shakes as he lifts the tumblr to his lips. She's afraid if she speaks she'll burst into hysterics or tears, she's not sure which. So she does the next best thing. She stays silent, and waits.

 

"It was foolish, I ken that," Sam continues after a moment. "But I've been waiting, ye see."

 

"For what?"

 

"For you to notice me?" He shrugs, the picture of indifference. But his hands still tremble. "I've had... I've had this crush on ye since we met, and I just..."

 

“You _have?_ ”

 

“Oh Christ you sound shocked.”

 

“Well, I am a bit.”

 

“Have ye… Caitriona… have you _met_  you?”

 

She blushes hotly and waves her hand. “Stop talking rubbish.”

 

“Uh huh, you daft —“

 

“I’d stop there if I was you.”

 

“You’re not me though,” he points out, topping up their drinks. “Look, it’s fucking ridiculous. You’re smart and bloody funny and ye laugh at all my jokes - even the shit ones - and you’re … well, look, you’re _lovely_ , Balfe.”

 

“I WILL NOT LISTEN TO THIS,” she shrieks and rolls onto her side, almost knocking over her vodka tonic in the process. “STOPPPP…”

 

“I won’t, thanks,” he says mildly, and out of the corner of her eyes she sees him watching her with interest. “Ye also have legs for days and tits that won’t quit—“

 

“Oh really?”

 

“Ah, I’ve got yer attention now, lass,” he drawls, his accent like butter, and her pussy twitches, reminded unwillingly of Jamie Fraser, and he and Sam melding in her mind, the kilts and the leather jackets, Lallybroch and Glasgow, the wild fields and the smoky pubs, and always him, his hair, his mouth, his broad back, cock that she’s felt against her belly, the heat of him, taste and smell and salt of his sex and sweat.

 

"Come here, then" she whispers.

 

He turns to light a guttering candle, and another match flickers into brief, burning life. 


	4. Chapter 4

  _Sam._

 

He's kissing her, and that is all there is, all there can ever be.

 

Her mouth, stinging with the taste of limes. It is soft (he knew that, from Claire, but this is Caitriona now), and as they lie on the carpet, twined together, he thinks that he will never get over the softness. Her lips, _giving_ beneath his. Her tits against his chest. His fingers, tangled in the curls at her nape, holding her head back so he can ravish her mouth, her mouth.

 

Sam groans with it, with the very idea that he is tasting _her -_ his Caitriona, his Cait as she's been since that first day - that he has what he's wanted, ached with, hungered for, until every breath felt like fire. The fire inside of him. When her hands steal beneath his shirt, marking a firm, hot path up to his shoulder blades, he wants to gasp, cry out -- and how foolish, but fuck this is good.

 

The kind of good that makes his dick hurt and his chest feel tight.

 

She hooks her leg over his hip, and her skirt drags up a bit, the thin fabric no barrier. Like a second skin. He slides the hand that is not punishing her hair up that skirt, to the edge of her underwear, the firm, lush flesh of her ass. He teases her, opening her a bit, letting her feel the promise in his touch - because he means to fuck her every way he can - and she mewls quietly, biting his lip, pushing her pussy up to meet his cock.

 

"Ye like that," he whispers into her, stealing her hot breaths and delicious moans. "You want me to fuck ye there?"

 

"Someday, yes," she murmurs, cat-eyes drowsy with desire and drink. "Don't you want to?"

 

"Christ," he growls and kisses her until his own lips feel bruised. Kisses her until she's almost fucking herself against him, bucking with her hips and riding the outline of his erection, and he helps, because it's intoxicating watching his Caitriona lose herself, watching her wild, watching her lose that polish that she wears so proudly each and every damn day. 

 

He's going to have her undone before the night is over.

 

"What else do you like?"

 

She grips his back. "Meaning?"

 

"Meaning how do I make ye come, Cait?"

 

"You're doing quite well so far."

 

"This? This is just a warm-up, babe."

 

"Oh?"

 

"Mmmhmm," he nips at her earlobe, dragging a gasp from her and smirking - just a little, because he's never heard a sweeter sound. "Maybe ye could show me."

 

"What do you--"

 

"I want ye to touch yourself."

 

“What, here?”

 

"In the bedroom."

 

"On Zara's bed? I think she might have an issue with that."

 

"We'll wash the sheets," he says low, sucking gently on the bite mark he made. "I don't intend to let ye out of that room for a while."

 

"Promises..."

 

"Just watch me." He yanks her to her feet, tugging her along down the hall.

 

She's giggling and fighting him - but play-fighting - and he wants to toss her over his shoulder, pure caveman style, but he settles for toppling her onto the bed. He has a second to thank Christ for Zara's good taste - plush covers on a king sized monstrosity - before he sets to his task: getting Caitriona wearing as few clothes as possible.

 

"Oi!" she battles him. "Shouldn't I be getting my own kit off if you're so set on individual activities?"

 

"This is all on me."

 

And so he begins to unwrap her. The lights flicker once as he does, like the snuffing of a candle. He sees by the lightning that flashes outside the windows. Sees by the faint glow of the candles down the hall, the silver rain and storm clouds. Sees her belly begin to emerge from beneath the fabric of her t-shirt. As he suspected, she's not wearing a bra, and her tits are perfect, moon-white against the dark comforter, the dark night.

 

He shimmies her from her skirt, watching as she lifts her hips to help. No knickers either, and he has to bite back a groan. She's hairless, as he knew she would be - having to listen to complaints about 'BLOODY WAXING' often enough - but he's never had a proper _look_ before.

 

At the way her hip bones flare out like wings, stark and beautiful. At the small swell of her stomach, that plushy bit from the curry and the drink. Her legs, miles long and just shy of skinny, the skin polished, the backs of her knees, the tender flesh of her inner thighs. At her long swan neck, the bruises on her ribs from the corsets they make her wear -- he touches those flowers of blood beneath her skin, murmuring. "Did ye have a fitting?"

 

"Yeah," she breathes out, watching him watching her. "It hurt a bit."

 

Sam soothes her with his palms, pressing his hands into the indents of her waist, feeling how tiny she is, how fragile -- and yet. Strength flows through her like rivers of blood, of fire, and he looks down, between her legs, where she is so many shades of rose, and wet from their kisses, from _him_. 

 

"Show me," he gestures, settling back on his heels. As he moves, he unbuckles his belt, locking their eyes until he feels like he's drowning a bit, in all of that blue.

 

"Show you?" she teases.

 

"Show me what ye do when you're alone." 

 

"Ahhh," she says, drifting her hand up to her breasts, just hovering over her nipples before tweaking them. Not as roughly as he'd like to, but enough to send a jolt through his dick at the sight. "Like this?"

 

"Is that what ye do?"

 

"While I'm thinking of you, you mean?"

 

He bites his lip as hard as he can. "Do ye think of me?"

 

"Yes." 

 

His cock is like steel, but hot, and he can't help but palm it briefly through his jeans, seeing her suck in a breath as he does. "You like that, babe?"

 

"Mmmhmm," she whispers, licking her mouth, rolling her nipples between her fingers. "Sometimes I think about that. You doing that."

 

"Then I 'spose we're even."

 

Her head dips back against the pillows as she traces down her belly with one hand, down down down to where she's glistening and flushed, and when he finally sees it - that first touch of her fingers - he thinks he could come, just from that. Just from seeing her like this, open and unabashed and free from any propriety or acting, free from Claire and the cameras, free from anything but this darkness and their bodies and the lightning outside. 

 

It's through heavy-lidded eyes that he watches her slide two fingers inside of herself, watches her pussy swallow them like butter swallows a hot knife. With her other hand, she rubs on the sides of her clit, not ever directly touching it, but just skimming the edges. Although he's enjoying the view - okay, more than enjoying as his dick feels like it might snap in half - he's also taking notes. He wants to know exactly how to make her come.

 

He wants to know how to make her forget her own fucking name because she's so busy screaming his.

 

Fuck waiting one more second. He removes her hands and closes his mouth over her in a single movement, hearing her squeak and then sigh, her body shuddering beneath him. His hands still her hips and he holds her there, just settling, learning the feel of her against his lips. Hot salt and blush-dark skin, the taste like nothing he's ever known, as mysterious and as addictive as opium or substances found in secret corners, in dark smoky rooms.

 

Where the wild things live.

 

In the forest, with the storms and the primeval winds and endless, driving, beating rain.

 

Sam starts slowly, as he instinctively knows she likes, avoiding her clit - as much as he wants to suck it down between his lips - just giving her leisurely licks along her inner thighs, where she is soft and sweet. Over the top of her pussy, where she once told him it hurts to wax more than anywhere else - and he gives it extra attention to soothe those past aches - like he'd wanted to when she'd shared that particular secret, wanted to bend her over the table in the make-up trailer - not caring who might be watching - drag up her skirts and hold her open, ravage her with his mouth.

 

He shakes with it, wanting to -- _punish_ her. 

 

All those little teases. His coquette. Flirting and dipping her head and telling him things that filled his head with the darkest of fantasies - the smack of his hand against her ass, threesomes with a random stranger, seeing her with another woman, wild and hungry and taking anything she wanted, could ever want - fucking her until they were both shattered, watching her ride him and touch her own cunt with wet fingers - he imagined it all, and he couldn't tell her.

 

Now he can, with his mouth and his teeth and his tongue.

 

He can tell her all of his secrets. 

 

Caitriona is already shaking, trembles rolling through her body like aftershocks. His fingers are damp from her pussy, and he reaches up, rolling her nipples between his fingers - just as he knows she likes - but he exerts a bit more pressure, wanting her to feel the bursts of almost-pain, followed by rushes of throbbing release. She jerks a bit with the sensation, sighing out his name. He looks up, watching as she pants faintly, her fists gripping the headboard.

 

"Don't stop," she moans out. "I could come--"

 

"Not yet," he says roughly. "I haven't even had my tongue inside of you."

 

"I can't--"

 

"I want to fuck you any way I can, Caitriona."

 

She whimpers. "I don't think I can stop myself--"

 

"I'll just make ye come again, then."

 

"Oh God..." 

 

He smiles against her pussy, a smile of pure appreciation that this is happening, and that it is _her._ He's burned for this for so long that he thought it would never happen; that all he'd ever have was fantasies while he fisted his own cock, but here she is, beneath him, and he finally sucks on her clit, slowly, softly, letting it blossom in his mouth, careful not to hurt, careful with how sensitive it is, engorged and throbbing.

 

Cait cries out, tangling her hands in his hair. She's pushing herself against his face and he takes it all, wanting to finger-fuck her until she comes, and so he curls three of his fingers inside of her, until he finds that particular spot, rubbing it firmly, rubbing it as he licks around her clit, sucks on her clit, rubbing it as he feels her begin to orgasm around him, a wet rush of convulsions, and he rides it out, rides her pussy even as she thrusts herself against him and away, crying out, her voice strangled, unlike he's ever heard it--

 

she doesn't sound like she does when she's faking it as Claire.

 

She sounds like pure sex, and he wants to fuck her until they're both bruised. 

 

He’d like to make her come again this way - but then he looks up, his mouth wet from her, and he sees the way her eyes are slumberous, her hair curling damply at her neck and forehead, the way that he’s made her nipples pink and so very swollen, the way she looks abandoned, undone.

 

He can’t take his time.

 

His thumbs hook behind her knees and he draws them up, causing her to scoot down the bed and laugh softly, ravishingly, and Sam can’t fucking help it, he falls in love with her the way he did when he first saw her, rainy and disheveled, speaking the words in the script with something in her eyes — something he recognized.

 

And he recognizes it now, he falls in love with that recognition - as he has a thousand, million times over, and so he touches her cheek, makes her look at him.

 

“Is this— can I?”

 

“You mean…”

 

“Aye, is it safe?”

 

“I’m on… but—“

 

“I’ve been checked.” He pauses. “I thought it wise.”

 

She smiles at him, repeats her words from earlier. “Come here, then.”

 

“Are ye sure though, Balfe, because I don’t mind—“

 

“ _Sam_ ,” she implores, and it’s her turn to run her knuckles over his cheek. “Please?”

 

He answers her the only way he knows how, by slowly - agonizingly slowly - feeding himself into her. He can feel every inch of his cock touching every inch of her, every fold and hot secret place, and when he’s finally settled to the hilt, when his pubic hair is rubbing up against her clit and his balls are against the curve of her ass, he breathes out and begins to move.

 

Her eyes are closed, and her face is somehow serious - as if she’s concentrating, but on what he doesn’t know. It’s her hands that move him, that run over his chest, feeling his sweat and the hollows of his muscles. They explore his belly and lower back, reaching behind to squeeze his balls and grip his ass. It’s playful and yet— every skitter of her fingertips is like a burn, and he’s gasping with it, trying to be steady, think of anything but the way her pussy squeezes his dick and her tits bounce with every slam of his hips.

 

Reaching down with one hand, he arrows his fingers around her clit. Gathering her flesh together and rubbing around her, teasing the sides of what he’d sucked earlier — and suddenly the memory of her taste fills his mouth and he leans down, kissing her once and groaning against her lips.

 

“Ughh,” she whimpers.

 

“What?”

 

“This— angle— it’s good—

 

“Shh, babe— it’s okay, I get it,” he whispers and he does.

 

By bending over her, he’s made sure that his fingers rub her pussy with every stroke of his cock, and he can feel it too - he’s impossibly deep, hitting her in such a way that he feels the thrusts like lightning up his spine. So he stays there, balancing with one hand on the bed and fucking her the way he’s wanted to for what feels like decades —

 

Fast. Brutal. Rough.

 

Soon, she’s keening in his ear, her hot breath and her hands digging into him, nails raking his back and fingers knotting the hair at his nape. It hurts and he fucking loves that it does, fucking loves the way she bites his lip when he kisses her, the way she smells and tastes on his tongue as he fucks her with his mouth, fucks her there the same way he’s fucking her with his dick, driving into her without mercy, making her feel every single inch of him, hot and burning and primal.

 

When Caitriona comes, she comes with her entire body, and it is all around him. Her arms clamping on his back, her fingers yanking his hair, her hips juddering, and _Christ,_  her pussy — the way it squeezes him makes his own orgasm inevitable. He goes still for just a millisecond - the pleasure is almost unbearable - and then fucks her through it, wanting to make it last, the shuddering earthquakes that jolt through his body, the blackness behind his eyes, the smell of her through it all, like candlesmoke and spice and the salt of her sweat.

 

+

 

Later, she blushes. 

 

He’d ventured out into the living room and stubbed his bloody toe looking for his iPhone to get the flashlight working. The flickering candles, a couple of strong vodka tonics, and the remains of the mango gelato go on a tray, and he brings it back to where she is, lying beneath the sheets, one breast exposed.

 

Her nipple is quite possibly the most gorgeous sight he’s ever seen, and he tells her, because why not?

 

She blushes the colour of roses and ducks her head beneath a pillow. “Can you notttt…”

 

“Why’re ye being such a twat, Balfe? Ye know you’re gorgeous.”

 

“I’m not discussing this with you.” She’s prim now, proper. Too bad, then, he thinks (except not bad at all) that she looks so thoroughly well-fucked. “Give me my drink, please.”

 

He curls up next to her, unabashedly naked, and hands her the fizzing cocktail. “You used to model. I mean, I would’ve reckoned you’d be used to people saying those things—“

 

“It’s because I think you might actually mean it,” she says hurriedly. “That’s all. Most people don’t. I mean, the photographers were either gay or trying to get blowjobs.”

 

“Who says I’m not after a blowjob?”

 

“I _will_ thump you.”

 

He bops her on the nose with his gelato spoon. “Naw, don’t think ye will. Who’s going to bring you coffee every morning if not me?”

 

“Oh, are you? So you’re actually going to come in on time?”

 

He scowls. “That’s a low blow. It’s only cause I’m working out that I’m late—“

 

“Poor wee lad,” she mocks. “Always in the gym.”

 

“Ye love it. I do it for you, regardless.”

 

Caitriona eyes him. “Really, I'm supposed to believe that?”

 

“Well, it's to get you to notice me, I ’spose. Fat lot of good it did.”

 

“I’m in bed with you, aren’t I?” she sighs and laughs, settling down finally, on her side. She sips her drink and looks at him contemplatively. “So how’s this work?”

 

Sam feels something familiar: befuddlement. “… this?” 

 

Another sigh. “Men are such dumbbells, honestly. _This!_ Us…?”

 

“I’d like—“ he pauses and it’s his turn to blush. Mortifying. “I’d like to try. I know that it’s a bit awkward, with work—“

 

“And the network, and people breathing down our necks, and what if we broke up?”

 

“I’d still like to.” His voice is soft, questioning. “I have faith, Caitriona."

 

She answers him, and her smile is blindingly beautiful — God, he recognizes it, always has. 

 

“Yes, I do too."

 

_And when he looks back on that night,  there’s a lot he remembers - that smile, the smell of her, the taste of limes, the sound of the rain (like the rain in the forest of his dreams) — but most of all, the fact that never once did the lights come on - not till dawn broke the sky into fragments of gold -_

_and yet, he still saw her through it all._

 

 

 

**The End.**


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